When the Doctor went to Downton
by pure-class-princess
Summary: A longer imaginarium of if the Doctor and Amy took a trip to Downton Abbey. Trust me, we do eventually get round to the Doctor, a point and the SOUP. Mary really is the focus of cast from DA but there is a bit of concentration on Sybil/Tom/Robert.
1. The New Maid

**This wasn't written in chapters, I've just broken it up [to be mean]. JK. Yes, there will be more than just downstairs banter and, trust me, the soup is **_**so**_** important.**

**~pureclass**

"There's a new maid!" called Mrs Hughes from down the hallway.

"To replace Jane, I suppose." Explained Anna in the kitchen, to herself really.

"Shame that was," added Daisy, "she left without explanation – just said she was going and left."

"Now, now, Daisy, she must've had her reasons." Mrs Patmore broke in with her usual derogatory statement.

"Yeh, but..."

"Daisy! The soup!" Mrs Patmore silenced her, Daisy almost panting as she attempted to stop the soup boiling over before Thomas, with one spin of his bad wrist, turned the gas down. His good hand was able to support a cigarette in his mouth.

Mrs Patmore, as much of a nuisance Daisy could be, was not unlike everyone else in not being able to dislike the girl. She'd pretty much had enough of Thomas shunning Daisy when Mrs Hughes and the new maid entered.

"Not another extremist red-head!" Miss O'Brien sighed as Amy walked in behind.

Donned in an apron it was the most clothes she'd worn in years and somehow still seemed strangely under dressed.

"So," began Amy, in her broad Inverness accent, "I'm Mrs Williams. What year is it?"

A silence encroached the room until suddenly Daisy began laughing, the pot of soup finally under her control, "What year is it?" she asked in return, "It's 1921. Or is it different in Scotland?"

"Daisy!" Mrs Patmore reprimanded her, "You don't say that, of course it's not. And I'm sure Mrs Williams knew exactly what year it is." The two had grown close enough for Daisy to realise when she'd done something worse than her usual accidental mishaps and decided she would be ushered into the corner by Mrs Patmore's disapproving glance.

"Sorry about that." Apologised Mrs Patmore.

"No worries." Accepted Amy, "We cool Daisy?" she directed to the small girl at the back of the room.

"Eh?" was her only response.

"Oh yeh." Amy corrected herself. "Period talk. Right. Er, this exchange hasn't affected what's likely to be a good friendship, has it Daisy?" she asked with slight hesitation, sounding more foolish than she could.

"I don't think so." Replied Daisy slowly, unsure of the question and it's context and confused more by Amy herself.

A following short silence was broken with Thomas' observation of "Always weird, the red heads. Feisty, aspirational, but strange."

"That will be enough of that." Carson's gruff voice shocked everyone in the room, especially Amy, when he stood framed in the doorway. "Has no-one bothered to introduce themselves to Mrs Williams, yet? Or shall we all be strangers?"

At that, all the staff attempted to introduce themselves at once. To this, Amy simply straightened her apron and pinafore and yelled "Alright, one at a time."

Carson and Mrs Hughes exchanged pleased glances. She'd fit in well, keep everything in order and she didn't seem like a problem.


	2. Brisk Introductions

**Yes, Tom and Sybil are introduced in this bit! I hope you don't think it's too short, I think I cut it off at the right place. Oh, apologies now, because the Sybil/Tom relationship is probably going to lead our imaginations of future episodes (alongside Matthew/Mary for you who prefer them) there is a bit [lot] focused on His Lordship's response to their marriage, and taking his nature into account I think it turns out quite accurately.**

**No, I was not planning on evening out word count with a long intro :**

**~pureclass**

"Huh-hum?" Tom cleared his throat as he donned an evening suit and took Carson's position in the doorway, casually leaning with one arm on the frame, legs crossed at the ankle. Only when everyone had turned to look did he stand up straight.

"And what would you want, Mr Branson?" Mrs Hughes asked, rather kindly as is her nature.

"Isn't it dinner?" he asked, rather sarcastically but still warm and friendly – as is his nature – "Or have the meal times changed since we left?" you could tell he was friendly joking but as everyone else genuinely chuckled Thomas gave out the most ironic, put-on, undermining laugh you've ever heard.

"Don't all crowd at once!" he exclaimed, jokingly also, before half the staff – Mr Carson included – group-hugged him. He had been missed while in Ireland.

"Hu hum!" It was Amy's turn to clear her throat in order to attract attention.

"Ah, yes." Mrs Hughes began, "This is Mrs Williams, the new maid. Resembles um, Gwen, I believe. Well, they share a hair colour at least."

"Hi." Amy introduced herself, and Tom responded with a simple nod.

Just then, Sybil ran down the stairs yelling "Tom, Tom!" Mr Branson's face lit up until he sensed the distress in her voice and then - when her picturesque beautiful face appeared - did he see it in her deep, worried eyes.

"What's the matter?" said Tom, in perfect synchronisation with Mr Carson as the latter spoke in his gruff, and now undermining, tone;

"What are _you_ doing down here?"


	3. Unrequited Fury

**This chapter, you could say, would be from Tom's perspective as he notices every under-defined detail of Sybil's appearance and personality. Switches in viewpoints are one way I might break the rest of the story up. **

**~pureclass**

Her simple and pleasant response was well thought through, her face slightly saddened by the butler's disapproval but then a smirk pulled across her face – something more unusual on her perfectly sculpted lips than even a hint of callous on any of her excruciatingly magnificent features – as she glanced at Tom and smiled in this way.

"Mr Carson, I know when we parted you were not pleased – but chose not to say anything. I have more right to be in this room than yourself and still have the power to at least suggest your dismissal to my father." When Mr Carson's matter-of-fact face emerged, his finger raised and his mouth slightly open as if to correct her, she continued in the same fashion; "Who, may I point out, has allowed both myself and Tom back into Downton Abbey so therefore, if you haven't already gathered, never disowned me. I am still entitled to my title and guaranteed a say in the staff here if I so wish." Both she and Tom giggled, she had been mockingly aggressive. Sybil would never hurt a fly.

At this, Mr Carson reached the end of his tither, piping down. But the dwindling flame of his annoyance grew to raging fire as his forehead creased, wrinkled in every direction, and he had to hold it as in pain whilst he sat down on a nearby stool.

"Can I have the Lady's maid, please? She's needed upstairs urgently." Sybil came out with the point for which she had disturbed the staff. Calmly she spoke, in her soft tone with its catch that made it sweet and unique – like birdsong. Tom knew that Mary had teased her about it when she was younger, how she didn't sound like a Lady, how she sounded like a boy, a little rag-a-muffin apparently. It had never upset Sybil but one time, she said, Mary had been caught by the Countess and the Dowager who, obviously, came down on her like a tonne of bricks.

Amy, Anna, Tom and Sybil rushed upstairs to Lady Mary's bedside. She'd fallen ill in the night according to Matthew, the first to have found her. He'd run straight to Lord Grantham's room and told them before waking his mother. His reason for being up, and within proximity to notice, at such an hour was that he had become restless and taken a midnight stroll. It was but just a month ago exactly that Lavinia had died. Now, Matthew tightly held Mary's hand, he was determined that he wouldn't lose her too.


	4. Meet the Crawleys

**Illness can bring about different responses in people, which may appear very contrary to their usual character. The personality change relies on empathy for whomever is ill (or the carer), the relation and how the person is perceived to the other. So if someone you were really fond of, for example, fell ill you'd probably be really protective, right. **

**Yeh, if you haven't seen all of Downton and considered each character from each other characters' perspective you may get the wrong idea about some of them but I hope this intro clarifies that they are truly all genuine nice people. They're just them. It's not their fault (it's Lord Julian Fellowes'), it's for comedic purposes. Come on, there's got to be some poetic license around here, no?**

**Sorry, really long intro again. You don't have to read them y'know.**

**~pureclass**

Only at 10'00 had Sybil been fetched – for her nursing expertise – and it had been her who had suggested retrieving the new maid. First impressions weren't everything, and she so dearly wanted everyone to get along. Plus, both she and Anna would most likely be needed given the circumstances. Formal introductions were skipped as Sybil, donned in her respectably-flattering and not quite startlingly striking nurses' uniform, brushed through the door with Tom close behind and the others trailing. "This is…" she left the gap to be filled,

"Mrs Williams," Amy entered her working name,

"The new maid." Sybil finished.

Everybody turned and smiled, several were forced or neutral, but most of the family were just genuinely happy to see life and to welcome her.

"Here," Lord Grantham asserted his authority in being the first to speak, and in being the one to ask such a favour that followed, "could you fetch the Doctor for us? Mrs Crawley and Nurse," he paused and winced before continuing. Sybil and Tom turned and smiled at each other lovingly. It's not that her father being uncomfortable pleased her but she was happy. As she slipped her tender, delicate hand into the slightly course from hard labour of her husband's she turned back to see her father sigh and smile, glad that he was adjusting, "…Branson, have been a great help but some expert medical advice would be well sought, and recommended no doubt." He finished, turning his head slightly to Cousin Isobel in search of approval, which he received in the form of her interjection;

"Yes, Mrs Wilburton," but before she could finish in her altogether self-supposed superior tone and angle, Amy butted in in her fierce Scottish drawl, correcting the self-centred and possibly superficial Mrs Crawley in such a remarkably gormless and naïve fashion it could be described as dangerous.

"_Williams_. My name is Mrs _Williams_." She said, over-emphasising the word both times and exaggerating her annoyance at the mistake in both her expression and body.

As much as Mrs Crawley looked insulted, Sybil just politely asked – despite its form as a command – for Amy to fetch Dr Clarkson or 'anyone else available' from the village hospital. As she left, Anna stepped further into the room and joined the family at Mary's bedside.


	5. Worth of a Blessing

**Letting go means different things to different people and in Lord Grantham's case its acceptance. Well, for his youngest, dearest, most Daddy's-little-princess cared for and admired daughter. The one for whom there is such an age difference with her elder siblings that it should only be expected for her to an individualist, a communalist, and very determined. Isn't the youngest always meant to be much like their grandmother?**

**~pureclass**

"Anna," Mary said weakly, "would you please request Mr Carson? And get someone to bring me some food while you're at it. This lot haven't let me eat all morning."

Anna turned to Mrs Crawley who immediately recovered her inferior composure and agreed "Well, I suppose a bit of warm soup won't do any harm."

As the two of them left, Robert looked to the vacated space at Mary's bedside being taken by Sybil and Tom. His arm was placed softly around her waist as they both – among their many talents – made Mary giggle. They looked so happy together and at this point he was sure that he had made the right decision letting her go. 'If you love something, set it free.' he thought to himself as he tried to grasp what had made him uncertain about their marriage. What hadn't made him realise earlier that his youngest daughter was probably going to be the first to marry?

Knowing Sybil as he did it seemed foolish not to expect her to marry for love as opposed to money or position, and that once she had found the right person there would be nothing complicating their relationship – as there had been with Mary and Matthew. She would find the man she loved with all her heart and, being as determined as she is also, not take 'no' for an answer. She'd find a way to marry him, even if it meant eloping like a thief in the night. And she would do it – she had done it even, before Mary and Edith reminded her that she needn't break apart the family and eventually it would be allowed. She was too individual; too much of a beautiful personality, that what made her happy would make him happy.

What made him most proud, however, was the fact that she returned only to ask for _forgiveness_ and his blessing, as opposed to permission. That she would run away and marry Tom anyway, with no money or hope of ever being allowed back, but that she wanted to remain close or at least keep in touch. And to tell of her plans, of course. Cora had been right: she'd be fine by herself. It was time to let her go.

At that, he called out to Tom and Sybil as they were leaving; having decided there was no more need for them in the present they planned to have breakfast but stopped at the Earl's commanding voice "Tom!" he paused to take a breath after chasing them out into the corridor, and waited for them both to fully turn around. Cocking his head backwards, and then his shoulders and torso too to get a better view, he checked that the room he had just run from was not in earshot before he continued, "Tom, I suppose that if Mary does not recover today then Sybil may need be on call much closer and that you may want to stay here with her."

Both of them could tell that he was going out of his way to be kind and welcoming, that he had finally fully accepted their marriage. He continued having recovered his breath properly now, "And we have a new chauffeur, so you can't stay in the cottage,"


	6. Sparks an Epiphany

**Realising that your own happiness is fuelled by that of those surrounding you, it's hard not to be happy for everyone around you also. The Earl of Grantham isn't exactly faced with that conundrum but takes another look at his original reservations on his daughter's marriage and comes to a blissful realisation; it's perfect.**

**Lord Fellowes, if you do not read this I will be severely downhearted to the point of depression. *cheeky Irish grin*Scileann fíon fírinne.**

**Alternate title for Chapter 5: "A Father's Forgiveness"**

**Alternate title/s for Chapter 6: "Polishing the Bonnet", "Scileann Fíon Fírinne"**

**~pureclass**

"I expected as much." He replied with a smile on his face.

Knowing that Tom had accepted his rather feeble attempt to be hospitable he smiled in return and said, "Speaking of which, we might want to have you teach him a thing about polishing the bonnet. He's a good a driver as ever I seen but he doesn't love the cars like you do. You spent an inexplicable amount of time tending to them in that garage; I wonder where you got the time to court Sybil from?" The last part had been intended as a joke but his Lordship wasn't too well into procuring an ironic or mocking tone so it sounded a lot more serious than it should. Sybil blushed and looked down, and as her father followed her gaze she quickly jerked her head back up to look him in the eye.

"I spent quite a lot of my walks in that garage, if we're being quite honest." She admitted in the type of matter-of-factly tone that wasn't as snobbish as Cousin Isobel's but just as rotund and respectable, if not more so, as Violet's. A perfect halfway-ish.

He smiled, not wanting to lose all the ground they had gained and retorted clearly; "I guess that doesn't matter now." At least his question had been answered and, on a more positive note, he realised something more – that Tom and Sybil would have had an instant spark as they were both so similar in the outspoken way that they both had of knowing what they wanted and going after it straight away. They both really deserved a job that put them in the right authority to bring the country forward, and knowing now that they could both achieve it he became genuinely a lot warmer. Their personalities complimented each other so well, especially when you compare some others that contrast so violently that you can only wonder why the two haven't gone into combat.

"Mi'Lord, are you alright?" it was the Irish twang that awoke Robert from his sweet epiphany.

"Yes, yes, I'm perfectly fine. I've just been realising a lot of things lately." He still seemed slightly drowsy, his mind had shifted.

"I'll fetch some water." Sybil announced before jogging off down to the kitchen.


	7. Honesty Burns

**Just a bit of messing around downstairs and Daisy gets the chance to be so innocently unaware that it's cute once more. Remember to take heed of your own advice, for if you don't, what man will? Táthar sásta anseo. Be aware of your surroundings, also and you may be passionate but remember your veneer in propriety and act accordingly; remain under your own conscious control.**

**~pureclass**

She just waltzed down the stairs and into the kitchen, skirted past Daisy who was handing a steaming bowl of soup over to Anna on a silver platter.

"You needn't be so formal," she droned, as if she were saying it for the umpteenth time, "Mary won't appreciate the flattery and would rather it were delivered swiftly."

"Are you sure that's not you, mi'lady?" Daisy asked, seeming very naïve.

"No, she wants to get better as much as we all want her to. The sooner, the better preferably. Food is to be fetched on a tray as which she can balance it on her lap while resting against pillows sat up in bed and no, she will not want to be spoon-fed. We can all look after ourselves." She seemed even more exasperated in repeating the words she'd only ever spoke once as she twirled behind Thomas with the glass of water still full.

"You can, mi'lady, but I don't know about Mary." Daisy seemed to take the fondness of Sybil as a free pass to be as honest with her opinions as she was with Mrs Patmore and clearly forgot her position as lowest in the house.

"I'll remind you to watch your tongue and remember who you are, even when talking with me." And at that she made her entrance upstairs and moved as fast as she could back to where her husband was tending her father.

"Here." She touched the glass to his lips and tilted it slightly quite hypocritically; which she realised as, in heeding her own words, her father snatched the glass politely and uttered "I can do it myself, thank you." Still with water in his mouth but yet as warm as he had been when she'd departed.


	8. Healing the Mind

**I think that you should note that I'd finished the piece a while ago and may work on a Christmas Special through Series 3 piece. Which may contain spoilers; of the entire series.**

**Families show their love in different ways but appropriate humility and hilarious remarks to everyone's taste – that appear to be comprehensibly in the correct tone from the Earl – is one way to say "Yes, this is great, we get along well." Nuair a glaonna dleacht, Ní mór amháin a fhreagairt ullmhaithe. Bhí sé in am atá leagtha di saor in aisce, agus mar sin rinne mé. Agus tá a fhios agam go mbainfidh sí a bheith ar ais lá éigin, mar sin is féidir liom a chuid eile i síochána.**

**Sorry about the Irish. And the extensive intro. Again.**

**There is, of course, a form of healing that nurses aren't trained to do – broken hearts. This includes deftly ill-received proclamations and sealing boundaries for good. Make of it what you will, but relationships between all kinds of different people are the easiest things to break and the hardest things to heal. Fact.**

**~pureclass**

In her absence, Tom had fetched a chair and her father had sat down and removed his jacket. She hoped he wasn't coming down with anything either but when she spoke these concerns he simply replied with; "Don't worry yourself with me, you have your whole life ahead of yourself, it's just old age."

"My whole life," she answered in her own sceptical way, "minus twenty-two years." Her smile warmed the cockles of his old heart like there was no tomorrow so he smiled, and this made him remember why he had raced into the hall in the first place.

"Oh, Tom, I must ask, would you wish for Carson to find you a guest room here, need Sybil stay on for Mary's care?"

"I think I'll save him the trouble, if you don't mind, and stay in Sybil's room." He grabbed her hand and faced her as they both smiled, truly in love and not afraid to show it.

"Save the old man a job then," Robert smiled as he also knew that that wasn't the real reason, and didn't particularly care, "Share a be- room," he corrected himself but not before the two burst out in laughter. "Go on then," he said with that pleased smile on his face, almost chuckling too, "I'll fetch the chauffeur to take you into town to fetch your things. Stay as long is necessary."

He'd been returning to his regular valour all the while he was speaking and as Sybil and Tom began to walk away again he called down quite seriously, "And make sure you're happy." They turned and smiled. "Make sure she's happy," he said directed at Tom, "or I may have to go back on letting you stay." He formed a wide, Cheshire-cat grin and finished, "I just want you to be happy." He paused and sighed, grinning again as he requested, "Grandchildren wouldn't be bad, though." They all giggled like school girls as Robert picked up the chair to return, already having fixed his suit, and smiled as he watched them go. The smile only a father who's just let his little girl go can wear. The bittersweet smile paired with knowledge that they will be alright, that they will make their way in life and, arguably most importantly, that they will always return.

Capturing that emotion in words is hard to say the least, so instead he just thought – _It was time to set her free, so I did. And I know she'll be back someday, so I can rest in peace._


	9. Mr Smith

**Professionalism is essential, moreover when one is attempting to impress. Although, who said one was trying to impress? Implications of situations are often more confusing than whatever the mountain to be overcome contains itself and therefore, if possible, should be ignored. Depends on your taste, I presume? Doesn't really matter to me. (Ar aon nós an bhuille gaoithe.)**

**~pureclass**

He sighed and, carrying the chair with both hands, plodded to the room it had been taken from. He wasn't quite sure from where exactly Tom had removed it so he placed it next to the bed. Leaving the room slightly numinous but still sullen, Mrs Williams almost ran into him.

"So sorry, mi'lord." She apologised in a definite Scottish twang. Strange for someone who had – if she was telling the truth – lived in Yorkshire almost all her life.

"Don't worry." He said calmly, "I was in the fault. Distracted. Ah," he said, noticing the man who had followed her now, "I see you've brought a Doctor."

"Yes," she replied, fumbling out _Mi'lord_ almost immediately after her pause as she'd clearly forgotten the formality of the situation for a moment. "The Doctor. Smith, John Smith."

"Mr Smith, welcome." He introduced, "I am Lord Grantham," he now ushered the small, rather eccentric looking young man to the next but one door along, "my daughter is in here. I fear she needs your treatment rather urgently." As he found his own way of poetically stumbling into the room, the Earl turned his head before entering. He faced the maid who was stood there, looking useless as if she didn't know what to do with herself, "You may go, Mrs Williams." He confirmed in a strained tone that made it sound more than blatantly obvious that she should have already left and was making herself awkward and – if anyone had needed come outside that room – rather obtrusive and probably annoying.

"Thank you, mi'lord." She said slightly annoyed but performed a small curtsey that actually looked more like a bow, emphasising the last word to prove she hadn't forgotten her position. She turned as she walked away just to find his prying eyes waiting for her to turn the corner to her left and follow the corridor downstairs, a disapproving glance burning through her to make her quicken her pace and not turn her head again until she left his vision. She knew the Earl was a nice man, but that he could also be quite assertive and scary. She'd already met both sides of him and the latter was one she intended not to tangle with ever again.

But knowing Amy that would never happen. She heard the door close gently and stuck her head round the wall just to confirm that it had closed with his Lordship on the inside. Thankfully, it had.


	10. Questions for the Chauffeur

**OK, from this you may gather that we shouldn't send Amy back in time to Edwardian England. Ever.**

**Still not there, maybe not too much longer though.**

**~pureclass**

She headed off back to the servants' dining hall and socialising area to find the chauffeur, Mr Finley, talking with that elated Mr Branson. There was a girl she recognised, but didn't know and to whom she had not yet been acquainted with, standing next to him. When Finley turned and left she approached the girl. "Hi." She said. "Have we met before?" it was only when Sybil was about to explain when and where they had met, only about a half hour previously, that she chimed up in answer to her own question. "Oh yeh, dur." She mocked imbecility, almost hitting her own head, "You're the Lord's daughter." She smiled then, half-impressed with her own incomplete recollection. "Oops," she then continued, remembering the rest. How she'd snapped at Daisy, who was the lowest of all, but then at Mr Carson, too. "Sorry, mi'lady." She said, once again emphasising the last conjunctive noun.

"It's alright." Sybil replied, apology in her own voice. "You needn't be as formal with me, at least not when my family aren't around."

"Oh, good." Amy sighed, "From earlier on, I thought you were going to bust a gut!" both girls laughed, with Mr Branson joining in a little after, but not too late.

"So," Why did everyone start like that then leave a pause? Amy thought to herself, before concluding that it must be a new-ish thing as none of this lot did it, "Are you married or not, Mr Branson?" she asked, speaking quickly without hesitation but still rushing to get her words out, "Because, ya'know, there's lots of 'Misters' around here who just use the title – like Mr Finley, he isn't married. Long way off that, I'd think." Both Mr Branson and Sybil blushed at this but had no chance to answer as Amy sauntered off, voicing her thoughts, "Can chauffeurs even get married?" she wondered, legitimately perplexed with the concept. The only 'chauffeur' she'd ever had had been Rory, but he was a nurse. "Can nurses get married?" she thought aloud again, and every time she spoke, though she didn't notice it, the faces of the two people to which she was supposed to be speaking reddened more. "Can chauffeurs who are nurses marry?" she refined her question, based solely on the position of Rory.

She looked up to see the now normal-coloured faces of Tom and Sybil when he said, almost immediately in response to her last confusing question, "What?" he hadn't said it, though, he had almost yelled it. "A chauffeur who _is_ a nurse?" he paused again, looking stunned, but Sybil just giggled. Had Tom taught her how to drive earlier she would have been a nurse and possibly a chauffeur. "You pick one profession _or_ another, not two!" he was genuinely distressed by Mrs Williams' subconscious questions, her most unusual thoughts laid out like a pack of cards on the table. Sybil was still laughing. "I don't see what you find so funny!" he confronted her, vexed.

But Sybil was not going to go there. She responded quite innocently with "And I don't see why you're so angry." She was calm, and her calmness emanated. Even Mrs Williams felt calmer, having been quite nervous when Tom was shaking the room. "Mrs Williams is clearly confused. Have you never seen Daisy on a naïve day? She's more idiotic than this. And, Tom" she said his name so sweetly it calmed him down even more, but nearly sickened the maid. Period-drama romance. Rory watched that before she stole the remote and he'd learnt after a few tries just not to bother. "I know you have a good voice, a good voice for informing _Ireland's Own_ readers of political struggles and whatever else you wish to enlighten half of the country with but, dear, you nearly shook down the building and I'm afraid granny may attempt running down here herself to find the trouble."


	11. Driving Lessons

**Look, I'm alive. I'm sorry, the rest shall be up soon. Then I might just bung the whole thing up as a final chapter for you. Sorry.**

**~pureclass**

His rage had evaporated as quickly as it had come. He was kind-hearted and spirited and in for the good of everyone. His Lordship's approval had meant the world to him but he was becoming short-tempered today. He couldn't name a reason if he tried – which he had done once Sybil had given him a soft kiss on the cheek as if to say 'Good, stay calm. I'm here, I love you and we don't want to frighten anyone.' In fact now, in the room they had in the Grantham Arms, he was just coming to realise why. Because he was nervous. He was happy, but anxiety overwhelmed him. He'd been invited, no, practically instructed or at least asked to stay in Sybil's bedroom. Bed. By her father. He was pleased. It wasn't unusual now they were married but for it to be the specific will of her father? It was… unexpected. It sort-of put him on edge.

Tom carried both suitcases out to the motor. It was the Renault, a beautiful car that he had tended to the most. He gave it a valet – inside and out – every month if not more often but it currently looked like it needed a good spruce up. In fact, it could do with a great big spring-clean. So could the Mercedes-Benz they'd been driven to the house in originally. Come to think of it, the Rolls-Royce and all the other marvellous vehicles at the family's disposal could probably do with a nice dose of TLC. Without blowing his own trumpet, Tom thought the new chauffeur could handle the wheel almost as good as him but definitely needed a lesson on motor care. A lesson he would dictate on the short drive back to Downton.

The journey, it turned out, was too short for Tom to finish 'teaching'. His at first friendly remarks about little things, like dust or water stain on the windows quickly escalated into a heated row between him and Finley on how to properly repair a puncture. "Stop it!" Sybil screamed; her own anger building as they approached the gravel walk around the Abbey. The driveway had sped past too quickly from the boundary of trees a bare few hundred yards from the monster of a house and even less before they could cause substantial damage to any number of other things – including the Dowager on her afternoon stroll around the grounds.

As soon as the motor came to a grinding, skidded halt Sybil jumped out. She was in floods of tears. She didn't know why Tom was so mad, he'd been fine earlier, but she'd had enough. It was enraging her and the result of it had almost killed granny, and herself. She raced over to her grandmother to make sure she hadn't fainted of fright at being almost hit by a speeding motor. They should really bring back speed limits on those things. They should have done a while ago. It would have made her rides with Tom longer. Tom.

After assessing the situation, making sure everyone was alright and being firmly instructed by the woman who came a close second to her in the 'Most determined Lady of Downton' category not to tell anyone that she'd nearly become road-kill she sauntered, still red-eyed from her burst of emotion, towards Tom. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide, but his arms would do. Whatever had possessed him to be so mad had clearly left him and he was now just caring. Mr Finley took their cases and followed them to the house, where he ruefully apologised on the main doorstep before ashamedly, but briskly, walked round to the chauffeur's cottage.

"He shouldn't need to apologise." Said Sybil, saddened that he had and still in a close embrace with Tom.

"I know." He said, guilty that Finley had done but mostly annoyed with himself. "Come on. Let's go to bed." He proposed, with that same worn-out tone.

"Let's." Sybil agreed, a little perkier.


	12. The Examination

**Here's the penultimate chapter. With a cliff-hanger. Dun dun dun! Hope you enjoy it. Oh, great; I had to go give this thirteen chapters, didn't I!?**

**~pureclass**

As they happily walked towards Sybil's bedroom, Tom carrying a case in each hand now but with Sybil's right arm interlocked with his left, a strange man passed them and entered Mary's bedroom. He was probably a spare physician the confused housemaid had acquired.

He returned to the room with his equipment, a small device no longer than a paintbrush and about the same diameter as a walking cane. Unlike those however it was metal, not wooden. The strange man shook the hand he held it in and it grew, extended further than it did before. He pointed it at the wall and it began to illuminate, to glow at that end. It made a melodic screech at the same time, a siren sound that was unfamiliar to the other occupants of the room – they recognised it from nowhere. He replaced the obscene implement inside his jacket, a pocket they hadn't noticed before and had most likely just fantastically appeared as well.

"Are we quite sure we want to be trusting this man and his new-fangled contraptions?" asked Violet, withering off, leaving the question open for response but none came until the bizarre gentleman answered with a smile,

"Trust me. I'm the Doctor."

"Mm-hmm" escaped the unconvinced sound from the Dowager's lips. Technology. Whatever had happened to 'by candlestick and moonlight'?

"He knows what he's doing, granny." Mary stuck up for her own cause. The tray Anna had rushed up to her was sitting on the bedside table, the soup barely touched. "Although," she continued, desperate to know the precise routine he would take before he used whatever invention was residing in his inside pocket on her, "may I ask, whatever are you going to do to me with that?" It was very straightforward – denoting her reasonably extroverted personality.

"I'm going to sonic you." He said, turning around from the 'basic' medicine table that Mrs Crawley had kindly, if somewhat dejectedly, set out for him. He'd been examining a syringe, commenting on just how primitive it was. He turned back around and inspected a pair of large, heavy, cast-iron pliers, turning them over in his palm and rolling them into the other hand. "Barbaric." He noted under his breath.

"Pardon?" Mrs Crawley asked, hovering above the eccentric fool all the while. "Barbaric." He repeated, so that they could all hear this time, "Completely barbaric, terribly horrific and probably quite disturbing. Yanking people's teeth out with these," he downcast everyone with one look, "utterly disgusting." He spat it out, like the thought was mud in his mouth. It tasted like torture. Had the poor, vulnerable, ladies of the house ever been subject to this innocent affliction of the third degree?

"No," she was sure the process of extraction was definitely horrendous, but she wanted something repeating she didn't know. "I meant to ask, what do you mean? You're going to 'sonic' her?"

"Yes, quite a simple process really, point and zap really. Makes a nice 'Wreee-eeee' sound, and it lights up! You must've noticed that before?" He spun like a ballerina, pirouetting towards the four-post chamber bed, having discarded the 'medieval' medicinal tools, regarding them as nonsense. Rubbish. He would have said Victorian but it was scarily accurate, too correct to be an insult.

"Will it hurt?" Robert asked

"Will it hurt, papa?" mocked Mary in retort, "This man just brushed off some of Cousin Isobel's most prized physician's tools for a, well, a sonic thing. Do you really believe he intends for it to hurt?"

"Sonic screwdriver." The Doctor corrected.

"A screwdriver? Oh, dear Lord, heavens no! Why would you examine the poor girl with a screwdriver?" It was Cora, speaking for the first time. She'd been almost too devastated to talk and had eaten less than Mary herself. She was sitting rigid on a hard chair in the corner of the room. As it had gotten darker her figure had become harder to make out until now; her silhouette was barely visible in the shadows. She spoke very smoothly and calmly, like she'd just been to heaven and back but you could tell she was going through hell. Every ounce of her being twitched with incredibility, unable to believe that Mary was really ill and confined to her bed as she had been. But she was the same age as Lavinia, give or take a few months. How many people had died in this building now? There was Kemal Pamuk who was someone she'd rather forget, her unborn child, poor William, poor Lavinia – both so young – and almost herself. Almost Matthew. Almost Mary. Though, her fate is still undecided.

"Not a screwdriver, mi'lady, a sonic screwdriver. It won't even touch her. In fact, I'll stand over here and do it." He said, prancing to the wall with the fireplace directly opposite Mary's bed. He had a good view of everyone. He held his sonic up like he was aiming a handgun and everyone fell silent.


	13. And the Rest is History

**And the final chapter! I really hope you like it! The return of an old foe and continuation jokes and hilarious stuff!**

***SPOILERS* The Dowager **_**always**_** has to have the last say.**

**~pureclass**

*Tick Tock* It was a whirring, clockwork sound, much unlike any clocks he'd heard in this time period, let alone this building. The clanking sound of cogs continued, the ticking was more a whirr-and-click, then something spun on a rotor and it happened again. And again. And again until the Dowager said, "Is that your screwdriver, Doctor?"

Mrs Williams had walked in as the Ladies and the Doctor were discussing exactly what his instrument was and now he spoke to her. "Amy, check under the bed, will you. And try not to scream too loud."

He got estranged glances from everyone but she happily obliged, "It's not going to be Prisoner Zero is it Doctor?" she asked, "Otherwise I want to pull on my stockings and mini-skirt." It was meant to be humorous but received disapproving looks from nearly everyone, the Dowager especially.

"Ok, Ok." She knelt down and lifted up the quilt trail hanging over the edge of the bed. A masked faced turned towards her, expressionless, its head was making the clicking, clanking and whirring noises which were magnified a substantial amount, accentuated to the point that it almost became a death-knoll, ringing in her ears and she screamed. Loud.

At first he thought this trip might seem like that one with Martha, but he'd obliterated any scarecrows he'd noticed on the way. Instead it was turning out to be like his first encounter with Mickey Smith. Back then, he hadn't developed the ability to sense courageousness in potential companions. The SS Madame de Pompadour. The French aristocrat had been unfortunate. Yes, he'd saved her from the Clockwork Robots – one of which he suspected laid refuge under Lady Mary's bed at this precise moment – but she'd been too determined, if that were possible, too hard-working. She'd died of exhaustion, worked herself to death. Did too much for herself in such a privileged position. He'd have to remind them of that while he was here.

"Amy," he finally asked quietly, the shell-shock finally out of her and nearly everyone else had recovered too, "What was it exactly that you saw?"

"It was, it was sort of like the peg dolls from that estate but it had a mask like Queen Elizabeth the tenth's. Just as cracked and old, but decorated like a French masquerade."

"Was it dressed in fifteenth-century French attire?"

"What?" but the question wasn't from Amy, it was directed at her. "Queen Elizabeth? The tenth? There's been a first but…" His Lordship was cut off by another of Amy's cleverly crafted snarky interjects.

"Well he has a time machine." She came straight out with it, putting this insane knowledge out in the open. She gestured to the Doctor a little too late. He said nothing.

"Doctor?" asked Amy, her voice breaking in that Scottish catch of tone, slightly accusingly but also worried.

"Sorry," he eventually said, having been switching stares from the soup and the underneath of Lady Mary's bed, "I was just thinking…" but he got cut off as the clanking starting whirring more, clicking and flipping what sounded like a penknife.

"Who do you want?" the Doctor asked, partly to him and partly to whatever was hiding on the floor, "And why do you always choose under the bed." it was an almost derogatory statement, not a question.

"She is complete." The robotic voice decided, coaxing a yelp from almost every female's lips.

"No, no!" the Doctor yelled and then "No! She is not!" as he brushed past His Lordship to knock the half-eaten soup, still in Georgian ceramic bowl, onto the slowly-emerging bewigged head. The bowl, whatever lacquer had been used, managed to survive and drag the hood from the devilish mechanism.

"How many of you are there?" the Doctor now asked sympathetically.

"Just me." You could literally see the wheels turn as it made the sound.

"Well, - all of you - leave. You know what happened last time. I can sonic you right now." The robot dematerialised in a small flash of blue. It was not enough to blind you, or even make you wince, and the Doctor alone screwed his eyes as it left.

"Doctor?" the Dowager asked after a moment of shocked silence, the strong lady having quickly recovered, "Sonic-ing, wholly ridiculous."


End file.
